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{calamari} alicia adams You bit me that day in the Chinese market. You kissed me by the rows of dead fish- fish on fish on ice: catfish, tuna, salmon. You held me close to you, and you kissed me-- bit my lip and drew blood. I licked the blood away knowing it would only pool in my stomach and digest. Beside us, the fish bodies sparkled on their stands. Bright pink index cards told their names and prices in black marker, half Mandarin, half English. Dozens of fish eyes stared at the ceiling or at nothing. Not at us, anyway. I walked to a pile of trout and rested my hands on their cold bodies, pressing them into the fish below. My fingertips brushed against their silver scales, and I imagined them swimming in the ocean, schools and schools of silver, glittery fish. I imagined them digesting through miles of intestine and bile, long tubes of flesh pushed further and further down. "When I die," I said, "I want you to eat me." I don't know why I'm writing to you really. I don't know why you should remember fish on ice, pink cards and bright light. I don't expect you to remember the dead fish smell, the salty crust that lined the ice. What I do want to know is if you saw me last week. It was ninety degrees outside. I went out to buy red bean popsicles, and when I passed the fish, I thought of you and how you bit my lip. And when I went outside I saw you, and I thought you saw me, but then you ran. You ran as fast as you could in the other direction, and I thought, maybe he's missing his bus or maybe he's suddenly late for something. But it was ninety degrees outside. Too hot to run. And so I wondered. Was it me? Were you running from me? You bought squid that day at the market. You made calamari soup, and I watched bits of tentacle swirl in the green broth, tangling with noodles. It was saltier than I thought it would be. The steam swirled around the table and fogged the windows. You were talking about a place called Bestiality Restaurant. You were saying that some men paid to watch women have sex with squids. And when it was done, the squid would be killed, cooked, and served for dinner. You wanted me to laugh. I told you I felt sorry for the squids, but I didn't really. They would be eaten either way. What I was really thinking was that I should get that job. I could leave behind me a trail of dead lovers. Each night a new love, a new death. Horny men cutting tentacle on their plates, smiling as it slipped down their throats. And I would go home. No ex to cry at my feet. No phone calls in the night. Just the rhythmic slush of a body digesting— proteins disassembling to nourish men who would never be grateful. Who would never think twice. But don't worry. You were never that to me, never disposable. I liked you more than the others. I liked you because when you tied me to your bed it was only to yell at me and to list all the things that I had done wrong. I liked you because you punched a homeless woman when she asked you for change, because she wouldn't get out of your face, you said. I liked it when you sped through traffic, shouting at other drivers, pounding your horn at red lights. And when you bit me in the fish aisle- I liked you then most of all. I pass your house on my way to work. Sometimes, when your curtains are closed, I know you're there with someone else- tying her to the bed, and I feel nostalgic almost. I wonder what you say to her. But there are many houses I pass on my way. Every street has a house or an apartment building with some angry ex lover leaning over the window sill. And sometimes I'll pass someone on the street, and he'll say hi. And sometimes he'll ignore me. But when you saw me you ran. Or maybe you didn't see me. I need to know. When I left the market, I walked to the beach to eat my popsicles by the ocean. The pier was full of fisherman, fanning themselves against the heat. Below I could see the tops of sea weed bending in the current, but beyond that was only blackness. I know giant squid never come too close to the shore. I know they don't wrap around the legs of piers. They're in the middle of the ocean, in the deepest places. As close to the end of the map as they can go. I don't know what it is about the giant squid. In my dreams, he's wrapped around me, pulling me down... Did you see me sweat above the calamari soup? Or when I touched the squids piled high on ice? I'm sure you didn't. Like I'm sure you wouldn't understand. But how nice it would be. Instead of ashes spilled into a careless wind, or a corpse pumped full with formaldehyde, leaking poison into the ground. How nice to be broken down into nutrients. To nourish a body so big and elusive, slinking across miles of ocean floor. Eating sharks and fish and breaking ships to pieces. |
